


Things Go Wahoonie-Shaped

by tessykins



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett, Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-12
Updated: 2008-04-12
Packaged: 2017-10-19 13:25:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/201324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tessykins/pseuds/tessykins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Peter gets ravished, joins the Watch and things go wahoonie-shaped. In precisely that order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things Go Wahoonie-Shaped

**Author's Note:**

> This is a crossover with the wildly hilarious [Discworld](http://www.terrypratchettbooks.com/) novels by Terry Pratchett. Discworld is a fantasy satire, set on a quasi-medieval flat world. Ankh-Morpork is the Disc's largest city, ruled over by the idiosyncratically despotic Lord Vetinari. The City Watch is the newly powerful again police force led by the pathologically cynical Sam Vimes.

Ankh-Morpork is the city of one thousand surprises [1].

One of these suprises is that the Guild of Seamstresses[2] is an equal opportunity employer.

The Blue Cat Club caters to gentlemen with rather specialized taste. The club is staffed by pretty young men in tight clothing, and muscular young men in far less clothing. The patrons were a mix of middle- and lower-class gentlemen[3]. Anyone who could afford a pint of Winkles and a dash of discretion was welcomed.

Peter Petrelli didn’t make a habit of his visits to the Blue Cat Club. He was training in the City Watch, and, in general, the public didn’t take kindly to being protected by sexual deviants. His compatriots probably wouldn’t like it that much, either. But every once and a while, he needed a release.

“Buy you a drink, friend?”

Peter looked up at the man leaning against his table. Shockingly blue eyes in a hardened face, close-cropped hair and stubble shadowing the hollows of his cheek. The man’s lips curled into a smirk and Peter caught his breath.

“Yeah,” his voice cracked and he hastily cleared his throat. “Yeah, sure.”

The man went to the bar, returning with two shot glasses. A pervasive aroma of apples rose from the glasses. Scumble[4], Peter realized. Well, his suitor certainly wasn’t wasting any time then.

The man shucked off his brown greatcoat and draped it over the back of his chair. His careworn white shirt was open at the collar and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. There was a certain disreputable air about him that Peter found irresistibly attractive.

The man took a sip of his drink, facing contorting in the familiar reaction to the sour taste of scumble. “What’s your name, then?”

“I’m Peter.”

“Well, Pete, I’m Claude.” Claude grinned and finished his drink. “What d’ya say we get out of here?”

It wasn’t the first time Peter had been propositioned here, or even the first time he’s accepted such an offer. But it was the first time he’d wanted the man offering to bend him over the table and fuck him right then, and to hell with the people watching[5].

Peter downed his shot of scumble and stood.

Claude grabbed his coat and walked out of the club with a grin. Peter shrugged into his coat and hurried after him.

They stepped out into the night, fog already obscuring the street. The fog rolled in off the Ankh, carrying the stench of the river it with it.

He turned to Claude and opened his mouth to speak, but stopped at the intense heat in those blue eyes.

Claude pressed him back against the building behind him. Peter tried not to think about what was getting on his coat; the walls in this part of town weren’t exactly known for being clean. But then Claude was kissing him and cleanliness ceased to matter.

Claude’s mouth was hot and hard and there was really too much teeth involved, but Peter was surprisingly all right with that. The sharp nip of teeth on his lower lip sent shivers of heat down his spine.

Peter didn’t complain when Claude tugged him into the deeper shadows of the alley. It seemed a ravishment was in order.

\-----

Peter knocked gently on the door to Commander Vimes’s office, almost hoping the man wouldn’t answer. He’d never actually met the commander of the City Watch, but everyone had heard of Old Stoneface Vimes’s reputation. After six weeks of being yelled at by Sergeant Detritus—the Watch’s largest troll and training officer—with the other recruits, Peter wasn’t looking forward to a “special” meeting with the commander.

“Come in,” came the muffled reply.

Peter sighed. So much for a reprieve. He entered the lion’s den.

Vimes wasn’t what one would expect of the richest man in the city. He was, however, exactly what one would expect of the leader of the ragtag band that was the Watch. His Grace, the Duke of Ankh, Commander Sir Samuel Vimes[6] was a hardened man in battered armor and rusty chainmail. He was skinny, balding and unshaven; he was already scowling as Peter approached his desk.

Vimes’s met his eyes for a calculating moment, then glanced at some paperwork. “Sergeant Colon tells me you’re good with forensics.”

“Yes, sir.” Peter gulped. “I trained as a nurse for a year. With Doctor Lawn over at the Lady Sybil Free Hospital.” He really hoped that mentioning the hospital named after Vimes’s wife would seem like name-dropping. Vimes notably hated the upper class. Not that Peter was upper class anymore, but he’d started out that way.

“That’s what Fred said. He thought working with our Igor would do you good. You’ve met Igor?[7]”

“Yes, sir.”

“Got along, did you?”

“Well enough, sir.”

“Everyone starts on the street, and on the night watch, too.” Vimes eyed him sharply.

“Yes, sir. I understand, sir.”

Vimes sighed. “Sort out the paperwork with Sergeant Littlebottom downstairs. You’ll be assigned to the Yard for now. I want you working with Igor for the most part, but the rest of Forensics can order you about. You’ll have to do at least three patrols a week.” Vimes rummaged through the piles of paper cluttering his desk, and fished out a duty roster. He flipped through it, before grinning faintly. It wasn’t a comforting expression. “I’m assigning you to Sergeant Rains for your probation. If you make it through that, we’ll talk about where we want you permanently.”

Peter stared blankly at him for a long moment.

Vimes scowled. “Welcome to the force, lance-constable. Here’s hoping you survive.”

Peter knew a dismissal when he heard one, and scuttled out of the office. He stood at the top of the stairs for a moment, trying to catch his breath. He’d done it, he’d joined the Watch, he’d actually done it. Not that that was a great achievement, his family would say. But this was what he wanted, and his snobbish family could go hang.

He descended into the hubbub of the main office, filled with patrols changing and officers arduously writing reports. Peter realized with a sinking heart that he didn’t recognize any of the officers on duty, much less the sergeant he was supposed to report to.

“Excuse me, I’m looking for a Sergeant Rains,” he said, tapping the nearest officer[8] on the shoulder.

“That’s me.”

Peter met the sergeant’s eyes and suddenly, everything went wahoonie-shaped[9].

"Hello again," Peter stuttered, giving him a little awkward wave.

Claude looked ready to murder someone.

  


  
[1]  
Some surprises are quite terminal.

[2]  
“They call themselves seamstresses—hem hem!” The Guild of ladies whose affection is extremely negotiable.

[3]  
The rich have always had ways of sorting out this sort of thing amongst themselves. Beside, no self-respecting nob would set foot in a pub on the Morpork side of the river Ankh.

[4]  
A highly alcoholic drink made from apples. Well, _mainly_ apples.

[5]  
This is generally frowned upon. Even in Ankh-Morpork. Except in certain houses of negotiable affection. But certainly not in public, and certainly not without getting paid.

[6]  
Much to Sam Vimes’s chagrin, the Patrician, Lord Vetinari, kept rewarding him with impressive titles.

[7]  
Igors were a strange clan out of the dark country of Uberwald. All named Igor, they were meticulous surgeons. All Igors were gifted with a relentless drive towards self-improvement through surgery. The Watch's Igor was considered especially modern. Their motto was, "a thpare hand when needed."

[8]  
A human thankfully—Peter would be the first to admit his upbringing among the aristocrats of Ankh hadn’t exactly made him comfortable with other species.

[9]  
The wahoonie is a large, spiky, and extremely stinky fruit. It is extremely rare and much prized by connoisseurs, which just goes to show that the rich will prize even the stinkiest of things as long as it is rare enough. Ankh-Morpork is occasionally referred to as the Big Wahoonie.


End file.
